The body is an instrument which only gives off music when it is used as a body.

Sexual intercourse... a joyous, joyous, joyous, joyous impaling of woman on man's sensual mast.

Poetry is the alchemy which teaches us to convert ordinary materials into gold.

I don't wish power, only art -art and passion.

Talk—half-talk, phrases that had no need to be finished, abstractions, Chinese bells played on with cotton-tipped sticks, mock orange blossoms painted on porcelain. The muffled, close, half-talk of soft-fleshed women. The men she had embraced, and the women, all washing against the resonance of my memory. Sound within sound, scene within scene, woman within woman—like acid revealing an invisible script. One woman within another eternally, in a far-reaching procession, shattering my mind into fragments, into quarter tones which no orchestral baton can ever make whole again.

I walk ahead of myself in perpetual expectancy of miracles.

I will not be just a tourist in the world of images, just watching images passing by which I cannot live in, make love to, possess as permanent sources of joy and ecstasy.